by David Nobbs
14.30 p.m.
Professor Knud Pedersen, University of Uppsala: ‘Aspects of Dietary Conscience’.
15.15 p.m.
Tea.
15.45 p.m.
L. B. Cohen, Esq., O.B.E., Permanent Under Secretary, the Ministry of Fruit: ‘Whither a Multilateral Fruit Policy?’
17.15 p.m.
Open Forum.
19.00 p.m.
Dinner.
20.30 p.m.
Brains Trust.
At Waterloo he took good care to avoid the cracked old woman, and deposited his parsnips in a litter bin before leaving the station.
The sun shimmered sadistically through the great glass windows. The filing cabinets shone with green venom. Reggie’s mouth was dry, his forehead stretched tight. He wanted to scream.
C.J. rang to wish him luck with his speech. Somehow he managed to speak normally, to use all the right words, to avoid saying, ‘Earwig very much’.
He tried to work on his speech but the sentences wouldn’t form themselves. His bank rang to say that they had received four more cheques, each cashed in his name for the sum of thirty pounds. He expressed the necessary alarm.
At quarter to eleven he decided that he could bear it no longer.
‘Well,’ he said to Joan, sitting at her desk with nothing to do, because he had given her nothing to do. ‘Well, I’m off.’
‘Good luck with your speech,’ she said.
He would never see her again, but he couldn’t kiss her in the middle of the open-plan office.
‘Good-bye,’ he said.
‘Well, off you go then if you’re going,’ she said. Had she really no inkling?
Bilberry Hall was a long, white Regency building with green shutters, set in rolling wooded country between Potters Bar and Hertford. Reggie walked over the gravel to the front door with sinking heart and slightly unsteady feet. He had already drunk six large whiskies.
He was ushered into the spacious dining room. The tables had been arranged in three long rows, and there was a buzz of serious conversation from the dark-suited delegates. Above their heads hung the controversial International Fruit Year symbol – the intertwined fruits of all the nations.
Reggie took his seat and apologized profusely for his late arrival, which he attributed to a broken fan belt. He attacked his avocado vinaigrette vigorously, and caught everybody up half-way through the chicken à la reine.
‘You missed a stimulating session this morning, Mr Perrin,’ said Dr L. Hump, his neighbour on his left. Dr Hump had a round, bald head.
‘Yes,’ said Reggie.
Dr Hump filled Reggie’s glass with rich, perfumy Alsatian wine.
This’ll give you Dutch courage,’ he said.
Reggie took a big draught of the wine. He had suddenly lost his appetite.
‘Sir Elwyn gave us a fascinating analysis of the pesticide issue,’ said Dr L. Hump.
‘You are Mr Senior Sales Executive Perrin?’ said a serious man with blond hair, sitting opposite Reggie and eating a nut cutlet specially prepared for him.
‘Yes.’
‘I am Professor Knud Pedersen, University of Uppsala. You are giving a most stimulating talk to us, I think.’
‘Let’s hope so.’
Reggie’s neighbour on his right introduced himself as Sir Elwyn Watkins. He signalled unobtrusively to a waiter to fill Reggie’s glass.
‘Dutch courage. Great advantage of you post-prandialites,’ he said. ‘You missed a very good little talk from Dr Hump. He touched mainly on the role of fruit in a competitive society. His thesis was, in a nutshell, that fruit should not be – indeed cannot be – less or indeed more competitive than the society for which – and indeed by which – it is produced.’
‘That’s very interesting,’ said Reggie.
The walls of the dining room were hung with still lifes of fruit, and there were enormous bowls of fruit on the tables.
‘Those pears are conference pears, and those apples are conference apples,’ he said. ‘Joke,’ he explained.
During the sweet, Dr Hump and Sir Elwyn Watkins were engaged in conversation with their other neighbours. Reggie became acutely conscious that nobody was talking to him. He was Goofy Perrin again. Coconut Matting Perrin who feared that the girls would laugh at his thin hairy legs when he played tennis. He drained his third glass of Alsatian wine. His eyes met Professor Pedersen’s. The author of the lecture on ‘Aspects of Dietary Conscience’ looked as if this little gathering was rather below his lofty intellect. Reggie smiled at him and tried to think of something stimulating to say, something worthy of consideration by the famous agrarian philosopher.
‘You’re Swedish, aren’t you?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ admitted the blond vegetarian patiently.
‘I’m not Swedish,’ said Reggie.
My God, I’m drunk, he thought.
‘I wonder if you could pass me the earwig,’ he said to Dr Hump.
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Dr Hump.
‘When I say the earwig I mean the water jug,’ said Reggie.
Dr Hump gave him a strange look. Then he gave him the water jug.
Reggie sat on the platform in the conference hall and faced a sea of two hundred and fifty earnest faces. Beneath the faces, on two hundred and fifty lapels, two hundred and fifty International Fruit Year symbols were pinned, and another huge International Fruit Year symbol hung threateningly over the speaker’s rostrum. At the back of the platform there was a large mural representing the British Fruit Association – two huge red apples and a vast yellow banana.
The Chairman of the British Fruit Association, W. F. Malham, CBFA (Chairman of the British Fruit Association), rose to speak.
‘Welcome back,’ he said. ‘We have had an excellent and fruity lunch (laughter). Now, if we can still concentrate (laughter), we come to what will undoubtedly be the high spot, the undoubted high spot, of our first talk this afternoon. I refer of course to none other than . . .’ He hunted frantically for his notes. ‘None other than . . .’ He looked around for help but none was forthcoming. ‘None other than our first speaker this afternoon. Indeed he is well-known to many of us, if not more, and his subject today . . . his subject today is the subject for which he is well-known to many of us. In fact he needs no introduction from me. So here he is.’
W. F. Malham, CBFA, sat down and wiped his red face with a large handkerchief. Reggie stood up. There was applause. He walked forward to the rostrum, desperately trying not to lurch. He tried to arrange his notes systematically.
‘Thank you,’ he began. ‘Thank you very much, Mr Whatever Your Name Is.’ There was some laughter and applause. W. F. Malham, CBFA, turned crimson. ‘When they said to me, “Reginald I. Perrin, you’re a senior sales earwig at Sunshine Desserts. Would you like to talk on ‘Are We Getting Our Just Desserts?’” my first thought was. What a pathetic title for a talk. And my second thought was also, What a pathetic title for a talk.
But I decided to come here, because what I have to say is important. Fruit these days is graded, standardized, sprayed, seeded, frozen, artificially coloured. Taste doesn’t matter, only appearance. If a survey showed that housewives prefer pink square bananas, they would get pink square bananas.’
Reggie looked down at the people sitting in rows on cheap wooden chairs in the high, well-proportioned room. Behind them, through the windows in the north-facing wall of the house, he could see the tops of fine old oak trees.
‘People are graded too,’ he said. ‘They’re sorted out, the ones that look right are packed off to management training schemes. They’re standardized, they’re sprayed with the profit motive so that no nasty unmanagerial thoughts can survive on them, their politics are dyed a nice safe pale blue, their social conscience is deep frozen. I’m not so worried about the permissive society. I’m more worried about all those homogenized twits who decide that all their brewery’s pubs should have green doors, or that the menu should say “eggs styled to choice” or something equa
lly pathetic’
He was doing well. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Professor Pedersen staring at him.
‘I see Professor Pedersen’s in the audience tonight,’ he said. ‘Let’s have a big hand for Professor Pedersen.’
There was a surprised pause, then a smattering of applause, which grew slowly into a tolerable ovation. Professor Pedersen, greatly embarrassed, rose briefly to give curt acknowledgement.
‘If we’ve ever complained about these things, we’ve been told we stand in the way of progress,’ said Reggie, when the applause had died down. ‘Progress. There’s a word that begs the pardon. I beg your parsnips – I mean . . . I beg your pardon – it doesn’t beg the pardon – it begs the question.’
He paused, totally confused. There was a groundswell of uneasy murmurings. He glared at the audience until at last there was silence.
‘Where was I? Oh yes. Progress. Growth. That’s another one. We must have growth. Six per cent per year or whatever it is. More people driving more washing machines on bigger lorries down wider motorways. More scientists analysing the effects of more pesticides. More chemicals to cure the pollution caused by more chemicals. More boring speeches to fill up more boring conferences. More luxury desserts, so that more and more people can enjoy a life increasingly superior to that lived by more and more other people. Are those our just desserts? Society functions best if I over-eat, so I buy too many slimming aids, so I fall ill, so I buy too many pills. We have to have a surfeit of dotes in order to sell our surfeit of antidotes. Well, it’s got to stop.
‘I hear some uneasy rumblings. I know what you would like to say to me, “What’s your alternative, then?” That’s rather unfair, you know, to stop me criticising the whole of western society just because I can’t suggest a better alternative on my own.’
Reggie clasped the rostrum firmly, to stop himself swaying.
‘Tell me this,’ he said. ‘What has progress done for the cracked old woman with the hairy legs? You can’t tell me, can you?’
‘What has it done for me? One day I will die, and on my grave it will say, “Here lies Reginald Iolanthe Perrin; he didn’t know the names of the flowers and the trees, but he knew the rhubarb crumble sales for Schleswig-Holstein.”
‘Look at those trees outside. They’ll all be pulled down soon to make underground car parks. But you try complaining. You’ll be labelled as an earwig. Trees don’t matter, people will say, compared with poverty and colour prejudice. So what will we end up with? Poor unloved black children who haven’t even got any trees to climb. But I’ve good news for you. Half the parking meters in London have got Dutch parking meter disease.’
There were mutterings. Someone cried out, ‘Get back to Desserts!’
‘“Get back to Desserts,” I hear you cry. “Get on with it.” “Get your finger out,”’ said Reggie. ‘Well I knew a chap who could, because he bought a finger off a chap in a pub in Basingstoke, so that would be rather amusing.’
His head was swimming. He could feel himself sinking. He couldn’t find the place in his notes. There was a buzz of conversation from the audience.
‘We become what we do!’ he shouted above the noise. ‘Show me a happy man who makes paper tissues, and I will show you a hero who makes fondue tongs!
‘You have a right to ask me what I believe in, I who am so anti-everything. I’ll tell you. I believe in nihilism, in the sense that I believe in the absence of ism. I know that I don’t know and I believe in not believing.’ He could see earnest whisperings taking place in the front row. He hadn’t much time to lose. ‘For every man who believes something there’s a man who believes the opposite. How many wars would be fought, how many men would have been tortured in this world, if nobody had ever believed in anything?
‘“But that would be awful,” I hear you cry. Well actually I don’t, but that’s what you would cry if you were listening. I deny it. Would the sun shine less brightly if there was no purpose in life? Would the nightingale sing less sweetly? Would we love each other less deeply? Man’s the only species neurotic enough to need a purpose in life.
‘Now I come to the question of earwigs, and when I say earwigs I mean a sense of values.’
Out of the corner of his eye he could see Dr Hump making signs to W. F. Malham, CBFA.
‘Old Baldy Hump there. Why is he bald? Because he made a cock-up. He used pesticides on his head and hair restorer on his fruit trees. Now he’s as bald as a coot and he’s got a garden full of hairy plums.’
W. F. Malham, CBFA, leant over to him, red in the face, dripping sweat.
‘I think we’ve had enough,’ he said.
‘Rubbish. I haven’t finished.’
W. F. Malham, CBFA, looked at the front row of the audience and shrugged. Dr Hump beckoned him over. Sir Elwyn Watkins leant across Professor Pedersen to confer with Dr Hump.
Get the audience back on your side, thought Reggie. Win them over.
‘Is there anyone here from Canada?’ he thundered. ‘Australia? Great Yarmouth? Anyone here from Tarporley? Hands up all those of you from Tarporley. All stand up and shake hands with the person on your right!’
‘You’re drunk!’ shouted a greenfly prevention consultant.
‘That’s right,’ said Reggie, swaying slightly, gripping the rostrum with both hands to steady himself. ‘Shout at me. Pelt me with tasteless standardized tomatoes. Use your instant anger mix. I don’t hate you. I want to help you. What is life for if not for those who have to live it?’
Dr Hump, Sir Elwyn Watkins and W. F. Malham CFBA, were advancing on him.
‘Here he comes,’ shouted Reggie. ‘Old Baldy Hump, lecturer in applied manure at the University of Steeple Bumpstead!’
They were grabbing hold of him, politely but firmly. He writhed, shook them off.
‘Get your hands off!’ he shouted.
‘Please, Mr Perrin,’ implored Sir Elwyn Watkins, trying to steer Reggie off the platform without manhandling him.
‘I haven’t finished,’ said Reggie.
‘Thank you very much. Stimulating address,’ said W. F. Malham, CBFA.
‘Come on, you bastard,’ said Dr Hump.
‘Keep your hair on, Baldy!’
‘A stimulating address. Should provoke discussion,’ said W. F. Malham, CBFA.
Dr Hump’s elbow caught Reggie in the genitals. He doubled up.
‘He hit me in the balls,’ he said.
‘I’m sure we all learnt a lot,’ said W. F. Malham, CBFA.
‘Come on, now. Gently does it,’ said Sir Elwyn Watkins.
Their firm hands were propelling Reggie towards the exit. He reached out to grab the rostrum but he was being dragged away from it.
‘Come on, you bastard,’ said Dr Hump.
‘Easy does it, now. Fair do’s,’ said Sir Elwyn Watkins.
The three men propelled the struggling form of Reggie Perrin slowly towards the exit. W. F. Malham, CBFA, dripping with sweat, purple in the face, turned towards the audience, still holding one of Reggie’s arms.
‘Thank you for a very interesting and forceful examination of current issues, Mr – er – Mr – er – ’ he said, and then the four of them disappeared from the platform in a tumble of legs and arms and collapsed in a heap in the corridor outside.
Reggie received another painful blow.
‘He’s hit me in the balls again!’
‘Leave him be, Hump. ‘Leave him be,’ said Sir Elwyn Watkins, scrambling to his feet. ‘Fair play.’
‘He didn’t call you old Baldy,’ said Dr Hump, still lying on the floor, panting.
‘I’m not bald,’ said Sir Elwyn Watkins.
W. F. Malham, CBFA, got to his feet and dusted down his trousers. Reggie was doubled up in pain.
‘The sooner we behave like academics, the better,’ said Sir Elwyn Watkins to Dr Hump.
‘Fuck off,’ said Dr Hump.
‘I’m going in there to make a statement,’ said W. F. Malham, CBFA. ‘Get him in the office. Give him some c
offee. And no more monkey business, Hump!’
He went back on to the platform and held up his hand to still the excited murmuring. There were loud shushing noises from the assembly. For almost a minute the whole audience was going ‘Sssh!’ at each other. Then at last there was silence.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said W. F. Malham,. CBFA. ‘A combination of the after effects of luncheon and of the heat has proved too much for Mr – for our distinguished speaker. I’m sure I speak for us all when I say how sorry I am that a talk of penetrating brilliance, with which no doubt we all found something to agree, something to disagree, and plenty to provoke thought, which after all is what this conference is about, at least I hope it is, how sorry I am, as I say, how sorry I am sure we all are, that this talk has been cut short in its prime, as it were. I think probably the best thing now is to. . .er – to take a little break. We will resume again at fourteen-thirty hours p.m. when I am sure we are all looking forward with bated breath to what promises to be a high spot in our discussions, the long-awaited talk of Professor – Professor – of the distinguished Swedish Professor who will talk about a question that is on everyone’s lips, the question of . . . as I say, the question that’s on everybody’s lips. And may I ask the staff, if they’re present, which I believe they aren’t, to see that the ventilation is increased. Thank you.’
The delegates streamed out on to the terrace to enjoy the quiet Hertfordshire sunshine. W. F. Malham, CBFA, hurried to the secretary’s office. Reggie was slumped on a chair with his elbows resting on the secretary’s desk. He looked distinctly green at the gills. Sir Elwyn Watkins and the secretary were standing over him solicitously.
‘I’ve organized some coffee,’ said Sir Elwyn. ‘And I’ve got rid of Hump.’
Reggie said nothing. When the coffee came he drank three cups and then he asked for a taxi to take him home.
As they drove through Potters Bar he told the driver that he didn’t want to go home, and gave him the address of the factory at Acton.
His mouth tasted foul, his head ached, and he felt sick. He’d been drunk. He had used the wrong words. He had insulted Dr Hump childishly. He had been heckled. He had asked if there was anyone there from Tarporley. He had failed.
